


When We Were Younger

by cassie_p



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassie_p/pseuds/cassie_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m Malfoy.  Draco Malfoy,” you say, and you check to make sure you did everything right.  You hair is perfect, your robes are impeccable, your posture would put Father himself to shame, you have your right hand extended exactly halfway between the two of you and this is all perfect, this is exactly what Father said to do if you meet the Boy Who Lived, there is no way this can go wrong.</p><p>Except.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Were Younger

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was part of an itunes shuffle challenge--I was supposed to have the length of the song to write a fic. As you can probably tell from the length of this fic, I failed that challenge.
> 
> Oops.
> 
> Song lyrics can be found [here ](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/youmeatsix/whenwewereyounger.html).
> 
> Warnings: Child abuse, references to suicide/suicidal ideation, and a misogynistic slur

“Smile, Draco,” Father would hiss, and the end of his cane would snap against your ankle and you would smile, bright and wide, teeth as white as your hair and as pure as your bloodline, a million-watt command for attention because you are the perfect son, you have to be.

Otherwise. Otherwise, you weren’t anything.

\- - -

“Show some respect,” Father would snarl, and the head of his cane, the metal, would crack against your head and you would drop, knees to floor and nose to knees, and from far away it would look almost like a bow.

The Dark Lord walks in on the back of a Hogwarts professor’s head, and he sounds positively delighted to see you on the floor.  Everyone else drops like stone, following your lead.

Auntie Bellatrix comes over afterwards to tell you that you should listen to your father.

And you do.  You always do.

\- - -

“I’m Malfoy.  Draco Malfoy,” you say, and you check to make sure you did everything right.  You hair is perfect, your robes are impeccable, your posture would put Father himself to shame, you have your right hand extended exactly halfway between the two of you and this is all perfect, this is exactly what Father said to do if you meet the Boy Who Lived, there is no way this can go wrong.

Except.

Except Harry Bloody Potter doesn’t take your bloody hand and rage crashes over you like a tidal wave because goddammit, you did everything right, so why didn’t he do what he was supposed to as well?

You send an owl to your father to tell him what happened and when he comes by in person the very next day, you think it’s to tell you how you can fix it.

Instead, he takes his cane and smashes you across the ribs until you feel them crack and you’re breathing blood instead of air.  He waves his hand and your lungs mend, and you gulp oxygen greedily, never again will you take air for granted, but your ribs don’t fix, not for the whole year, because he comes back, once a month, to visit you and rebreak them.

You curse Potter, every time.

\- - -

After the second Quidditch game you play, Potter walks up to you.

(He was too busy being hailed as a bloody hero after the first game your two teams played, and you had been on suspension until this game for your failure in that same game.)

He holds out his hand—perfect posture but he reaches too far over the invisible halfway line, you would have gotten your knuckles rapped with a wand for such a mistake—and he says, “Good game, Malfoy.” 

And you just walk away, because.  No.  Potter does not get to be nice, now.  Not after first year.

Potter stares after you until the Weasel walks up and asks him what he was doing talking to you.  Which is insulting because the burden is Potter’s company, not yours. 

You don’t think about the look in Potter’s eyes as you walked away. Ever.

\- - -

He comes up to you, again, after the next Gryffindor-Slytherin game.

Your reaction doesn’t change.

\- - -

And now he does it after every single game you play, not just the ones against his bloody team, so one day you snap and you hold out your hand like it burns to and touch your fingers to his palm as menacingly as you can manage and Father would beat you for your posture but he’s not here so you’ll be okay. You bite out, “Thanks,” just so he’ll leave you alone, and instead.  Instead, he smiles, a million-watt smile like the ones you forced at Father’s behest, except.

Except you think he means it.

And you.  You don’t know how to deal with that.

\- - -

Father tells you that Potter approaching you is good, and you need to take advantage of it.  He tells you to open yourself up to him, become his friend like you _failed_ to do as a first-year.  For the first time in your life, you want to refuse, but then the floating chandelier glints off of the metal snake and you’ve had enough beatings for ten lifetimes, let alone just your one, so you nod and you say, “Yes, Father,” to the bottom of his Dark Mark, where it peeks out from under his sleeve. 

Father wants you to get one soon.  You will.  This will make him proud of you, and that is all you need in life.

At least.  That’s all you allow yourself to need.

\- - -

Potter comes up to you after you fail to catch the snitch and then a bloody Hufflepuff wins the game for her team, and this is so reminiscent of the game against Potter himself that you’re seething with rage, and you know there will be hell to pay for this one, on all sides, and all you want to do is fly your broomstick into the side of the castle until you plummet to your death and won’t Father be proud of you then?  Finally succeeded at something.

Potter breaks from the speech pattern he established and he doesn’t say, “Good game,” he says, “You were fantastic, Draco.  It was just an unlucky break.  You should have won that game,” and he clasps his hand on your shoulder with a commiserating grimace and you open your mouth with a sharp retort, except your tongue, your silver tongue, bred to lie and cheat and deflect, it betrays you and unthought truths spill out, so instead of insulting Potter’s heritage or his Quidditch skills or his stupid fucking hair, you say, “Meet me by the goal post tonight around 10.” and his eyes widen in surprise at the same time his pink, pink lips part into a smirk and he nods and squeezes his fingers and electricity shoots through you.

You think he must have hexed you, but then he lets go and the sensation remains, and you think, “Is this really what you wanted, Father?” and then Potter walks away, first, and that. 

That’s never happened before.

\- - -

You start to pen Father a letter, telling him you sat knee to knee on the Quidditch field with Potter until daylight crept across the lake and washed over you like reality.

Potter laughed and told you your hair was the same colour as the dew and he proved it by sticking a pale pink flower behind your ear, like you’re a gentle Gryffindor maiden who needs coddling and romance and he said, “And now your cheeks are the same colour as the petals,” with so much affection in his voice it hurt you, and.

You don’t send the letter.

\- - -

You’ve been meeting Potter outside every night for three weeks when he finally leans in and breathes an apology into your mouth and his lips make contact with yours and the electricity crackles back into you, one hundred fold, all down your spine, through your fingertips and down to your toes, and you almost forget to reciprocate but then you pucker your lips and his hand tugs on a bit of your hair and the noise you would have made is kept inside the vacuum of your mouth sealed to his.  Potter pulls back and smiles so wide it looks like it hurts his cheeks.  He whispers your name like he doesn’t know what else to say, and then he leans back into you like he can’t bear to stay away. Your body opens up to his and you end up flat on your back in the middle of the Quidditch field with Harry Bloody Potter on top of you, licking into your mouth like he wants to know what you’re hiding in the deepest parts of yourself.

Unbidden and unwelcome, Father’s voice crawls out of your subconscious and into the space between fantasy and reality and he says, “Get close to the Potter boy, Draco,” and this is definitely not what Father meant but for the first time in your life, you can’t bring yourself to care about the consequences. You fist your hands in Potter’s handwoven sweater from the Weasel’s mother and try to ground yourself in Potter’s smell and taste and feel so that nothing else can slip through the cracks and remind you that once daylight hits, you are not just Draco and he is not just Potter, you are the son of a Death Eater, and he is The Boy Who Lived.

You pray daylight never comes and the moon forever reigns over the little slice of Hogwarts you inhabit with him.  The rest of the world can manage without you.

\- - -

You’re sneaking out to meet Harry one night when Crabbe stops you and asks if she’s at least putting out, if your secret girlfriend insists on pulling you out of bed at all hours.  You’re not surprised that he noticed—it’s been two whole years since the first time Harry held out his hand to you and expected nothing in return, Crabbe really should have noticed sooner, honestly—but then you flush because you and Harry haven’t…done that.  You think that until you give him that part of yourself, you can pretend like it means nothing and you’re not betraying everything you and your kin have ever stood for, because Harry is the furthest thing from the dark wizard Father desperately hopes he is.

Crabbe sees the colour on your cheeks and he shoves you with glee apparent on his rotund face.   “Have fun, Malfoy,” he leers, and you push your way through the stone wall of the common room out into the Dungeon hall.

You meet Harry in the abandoned greenhouse you discovered halfway through third year, after Filch nearly caught you and him, so you decided you needed somewhere with more privacy than the Quidditch field.

You sit on the cold countertop that once housed potted plants and your throat almost closes from fear but you manage to croak out the words, looking nervously at the shadows behind Harry’s head instead of at him, but you still see his eyes go wide, green and earnest and concerned, but his pupils dilate all the same and you’ve been doing this with him long enough to know that his blood rushed downwards.  He asks you if you’re sure and you just pull off your robes and offer yourself to him.

He rushes and fumbles and he’s too hesitant and you’re scared and he’s scared but once he’s finally inside you and the sting has dulled into a warm burn, that’s when you know that this is exactly where you always belonged, heated up inside and out by the force of nature that is Harry Potter.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers into your collarbone.  “Thank you,” he says to the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

“I love you,” Harry whispers into your mouth, and the affection you’ve wanted your whole life creeps in through your skin and settles in your bone marrow.

“I love you too,” you say, and your mouth moves but your vocal chords can’t force the vibrations necessary for sound.

You think he hears you, somehow, because he smiles and he kisses you so gently you almost feel like one of the frail maidens you mock so often.

You orgasm at the same time he does, your lips and hands and _selves_ connected in every way possible.  This is the completion, the wholeness, that you’ve been striving for, the feeling that Father’s approval never gave you. Harry’s kiss soothes something inside you that had been knotted since the first time Father raised his hand against you.

\- - -

Halfway through fifth year, Father shows up at Hogwarts with a look on his face like you haven’t seen since he broke your ribs when you were eleven.

“Someone saw you with the Potter boy,” Father says, voice tight.

You start to justify yourself, say you’re only doing as he asked, and that you know Potter will come over onto your side, now. 

The cane whips out at your kneecaps and you drop.

“Someone saw you on your _knees_ with the Potter boy,” Father shouts and the unmistakable crack of an Unforgivable Curse cracks through the hallowed air of Hogwarts and the Cruciatus floods your veins. You scream, but Father soundproofs the room with a muttered incantation.  He has performed both of these curses often enough that he barely needs to focus to maintain them.

He holds the curse on you until you think your heart will give out, just to save you from some of the agony.  He finally lifts the curse and your sobs echo throughout the room.

“No son of mine will conduct himself like any common mudblood whore.”

His open palm bloodies your nose and his fist blackens your eye. He spits next to you and stalks away.

It is only when he has almost left that the power of speech returns to you.

“I did it for you,” you whimper, which.  Isn’t exactly true.  But you say it anyways and you sob on every exhale.

Father stiffens, and you didn’t know it was possible for him to look more disgusted, but he does.  “I’ve never been so disappointed, Draco,” Father says, and your sobs are for more than just the physical, now.  “Stay away from Harry Potter, or you will no longer be my son.”

Father leaves and you stare at the ceiling until all your tears have been absorbed into the plush carpet under your head.

\- - -

You want to choose Harry.

To choose love over fear.

But you can’t and you know that about yourself, because while the sex and the post-coital affection can heal you for short bursts of time, nothing can make you feel like Father loves you except Father actually loving you.

That night, Harry asks you about your bruises, which Father hexed so they couldn’t heal, even with magic, and you bite out a terse, “My father,” and close the discussion by kissing Harry until he forgets his own name, let alone your pathetic problems. 

He fucks you quick and rough, bent over the metal table that digs into your pelvic bone, until you’re screaming and he just holds you even tighter. You’ll wear Harry’s marks along with Father’s, because your body can’t tell the difference between the pain you hate and the pain you need. 

Harry kisses you, lingering and reassuring, and he whispers, “I love you” and “Goodnight” in the same breath.  He figures he’ll have tomorrow and the day after and the day after that to pull the whole sordid tale out of you, but he doesn’t know what you know.

You say “I love you,” the first time the words have passed your lips with sound, and you mean “Goodbye.”

He kisses you again, and he leaves first.

You stay for a while, staring at the stars and wondering if the killing curse can work on yourself.

It can’t, you find out.

\- - -

Harry keeps trying to talk to you. 

You try avoiding him, you try being rude to him, you try insulting his friends and his mother and Dumbledore, but he just keeps coming back, always when you’re alone so you’ll never feel embarrassed or pressured, and you don’t know how to handle it without breaking.

Eventually, you just tell him you can’t, those exact words, “I can’t.” and Harry.

Harry understands.

Harry understands you more than you understand yourself because he looks sad—his pink, pink lips droop into a frown and his green, green eyes go wide and worried—but mostly he looks like he wishes he could protect you, and isn’t that rich, the Boy Who Lived but only because someone else protected him thinks he can save you.

You don’t need saving.

He presses a parting kiss to your lips and he’s so tender that you simply crumple into yourself.  Tears drip down your cheeks and onto his shoulder, because he caught you and held you against him and nosed into your hair and stroked your back while you lost your hard-earned composure.

When you finally stop crying, you pull away and allow him to tug you in for one final kiss, the real last kiss, before you pull all the way back and then leave, before either you or him can change your mind.

You look back, once and once only.

He’s standing exactly where you left him, watching you walk away.

“I’ll always be here for you,” he shouts to you and then you turn and you _run_ because that.

That’s not something you can deal with.

\- - -

Time passes and Harry still looks at you the same way he did that night—equal parts longing, pity, and helplessness.

But then Father goes to prison and you become a Death Eater, a real one. They burn the Dark Mark into your flesh and for some reason all you think of is the marks Harry left in the shape of his fingers on your hip, the night after Father Crucioed you. You could have used a spell to make Harry’s marks last longer, like the one Father used on your black eye, but instead you did it the Muggle way, by pressing against the bruises, hard, every night, so they lasted as long as you could keep your blood vessels from healing.

The Dark Mark sears inside your skin and you want nothing more than Harry’s forgiveness but you know you can never have it.

Then it’s the end of sixth year and you’ve almost made Father proud and Professor Snape wants you to shove Dumbledore and you almost do it because you’re _this close_ to what you’ve always wanted when.  Those eyes.  They flash before you and you know you didn’t actually see them, because there is no way that Harry is in the Astronomy Tower but.  Those eyes are why you can’t.

They stop you.

\- - -

After Dumbledore, Harry’s not there to look at, anymore.  And you know it’s irrational—he has a world to save, now, you’re just one lonely boy—but he promised he would be there and now he’s not and now.

Now Harry is just like every other disappointment in your life.

You aren’t surprised by this, exactly.  You always knew he had better things to do with his life than you, it’s just.

You had hoped…

But there is no room for hope in the son of a Death Eater.

\- - -

The war happens, finally, and it erupts on Hogwart’s front doorstep.

Students are crossing, one by one, to stand with You-Know-Who.  Most of the betrayers are Slytherins, but there are some Ravenclaws mixed in with your former Housemates.  You think, _you Ravenclaws, you’re supposed to be the smart ones_.

Harry stands tall and firm in defense of the wizarding world and You-Know-Who laughs and your mother shouts your name across the chasm between where you are and who your parents want you to be.

Mother wails, because she thinks that you must be dead, if you have not crossed over to her and Father.  “Draco,” Father hisses, and you’re pulled out of the crowd by the sound of his voice, and you reach the very front lines of the battle and.  You stop.  Right next to Harry Bloody Potter and you don’t turn and look at him, because this time without him has taught you that you don’t need him (except for all the ways that you really, truly, do). 

You plant your feet and shake your head and Father swears like he does at the house elves.  Mother weeps. Harry’s face grows to a million-watt smile you can just barely see out of the corner of your eye. Harry grabs your hand and laces his fingers through yours and the feeling of wholeness settles in and around you like a heating charm in the dead of winter.  You can feel the Dark Mark dissipate, and even though you know it’s only in your head, it still makes you feel better.

You-Know-Who draws his wand on Harry and yours is drawn in an instant as well. Then You-Know-Who turns to you, and his smile turns vengeful, and the battle begins anew.

\- - -

Later, after the war is won by the good wizards and the bad wizards have been carted off to Azkaban and the causalities were equally suffered on each side (you mourn more for Crabbe and one of the Weasel boys than you do for Bellatrix and Father), you and Harry sit next to one another, in the ruins of your school. You’re not directly touching him in any way, but your body is angled towards his so that your body heat occupies the same space that his does.

“You know,” you say, and his head snaps to look at you, and you realize he hasn’t heard your voice in over a year.  “When I was younger, I never imagined that I would end up fighting on your side of this war.”

Harry laughs, though he is too tragedy-struck and world-weary for it to sound cheerful.  “I had always hoped that you would,” he says, and.

And you had, too.

You kiss him amongst the rubble and the death, and he tastes like ash and the taint of foreign magic, and this is probably the best moment of your life, because you have more than you ever thought to hope for, because Harry Bloody Potter is making a noise like he was dying before your lips touched but now, through this contact, you have saved him, and he is wrapping his arms around you so tightly you would worry, except you’re clutching him just as tightly. You pry yourself apart from him and say, “I love you,” so that he’ll understand and he kisses you and says the same back, because he’s always understood.

You go back to kissing him like the word is ending, because it almost did, until.  The clatter of medical supplies hitting broken stone slabs into your conscious mind and you spin around and see Granger, standing right behind you with bright pink cheeks and lax arms and apparent shock.

“So this was your secret girlfriend, all these years?” she snaps, and she sounds more affronted than surprised.

“Boyfriend,” Harry corrects, and he doesn’t move from where he is, pressed against you from chest to toe.  You fold back around to face him and smile and kiss him and ignore Granger’s noise of disgust and under all the dust, Harry is beginning to taste like peppermint, and.

You can live with this.

It’s not the same as gaining Father’s approval, but maybe that’s because it’s better.


End file.
